


Proxy

by colonel_bastard



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Drinking to Cope, Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Hatred, Sexual Repression, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody needs something to fill the empty spaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proxy

**Author's Note:**

> I think one of the reasons I never managed to ship Royai was because it always seemed incredibly obvious to me that Roy was a deeply repressed homosexual who used alcohol to cope with his self-loathing. But maybe I was just projecting.

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He doesn’t have to say anything— Chris sees the stricken look in his eyes and slides him a whiskey without saying a word.

Roy finishes the drink before he even sits down at the bar, tapping the rim for a refill with one hand, unfastening the top button of his shirt with the other. At least he took the time to change out of his uniform; that high collar sometimes feels like a shield, other times like a noose. An absent sniff of his dark jacket reminds him that he forgot to put on his cologne, yet another sign that he was in a hurry. He picks at a hangnail and curses himself for being so sloppy.

Chris pours another shot, considers saying something, then settles for smacking his hands apart before he rips the hangnail and bleeds all over her polished bar. There are other customers that require her attention, and she knows this much: Roy can take care of himself. She leaves him alone.

He was on the verge of gulping down his second drink, but now that Chris has moved away, he’ll have to pace himself. The last thing he wants to deal with is an empty glass. He nips at the drink but takes great care to leave enough to hold him over until Chris completes her circuit.

If he asked, she would leave him a bottle. That probably wouldn’t be a good idea, but he’s considering it all the same.

The memory of blue eyes creeps up on him— the taste of smoke— the fumble of awkward hands—

He snatches up his glass and shoots down the whiskey. So much for restraint.

Rapping on the bar with his knuckles, he catches Chris’s eyes and lifts his empty glass significantly. She shakes her head at him and he bares his teeth in a petulant snarl.

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let Havoc get this close? He tells himself that it happened by degrees, that there’s no way he could have seen this coming. So the second lieutenant would stay late at the office when Roy stayed late— just good company. So when Roy ran out of coffee, Havoc was always right there with more— just good timing. So Havoc was always the last person to say goodnight to him— and always the first person to say good morning— just coincidence.

The brush of hands when paperwork was exchanged, fingertip to fingertip— the pat on the shoulder, the nudge in the ribs— the honest, open smile that greeted him whenever he said, “Good work, lieutenant.”

And maybe he encouraged him. Maybe he shouldn’t have winked at his jokes, shouldn’t have allowed their hands to linger on the same paper, shouldn’t have lit all those cigarettes, his fingers scant inches from Havoc’s pursed, expectant mouth.

Chris is engaged in conversation at the other end of the bar. Roy considers leaning over the countertop like he used to do, belly splayed along the slick wood, one arm reaching and his legs held out behind him for counterbalance. What a fool he’d look— has he really become so desperate that he’s actually considering it?

Elbows on the bar, hands over his face, he waits for his sanity to return.

He’s not sure how long he sits like that, but it’s long enough— he’s brought back to his senses by the touch of a concerned hand on his arm. He opens his eyes, vision blurry from the pressure of his fingertips, and sees Chris.

She says, “Trouble?”

He looks meaningfully at his empty glass, winces at the scoff of disapproval even as she pours him another.

“Listen, boy,” she jabs a finger at him. “If you’re here for a good time, the girls will be happy to lend a hand. If you’re here for information, spit it out already. If you’re just going to sulk, do it in the privacy of your own home. I know you keep a bottle next to your bed.”

“All right,” he leans back and smiles in defiance of himself. “Send over Mar—“

The name _Maria_ dies on the tip of his tongue. Blue-eyed Maria, blonde hair, open smile. His phony grin quickly dissolves. He’s just caught himself in a lie. Chris notices the look of genuine pain, and her own glare softens.

“Take a minute,” she says. “Let me know.”

He wants to tell her about Havoc cornering him in the hall, about the kiss, the fumbling, the whimpers of lust. How good Havoc’s mouth felt, how broad his chest, how big and strong his hands. How Roy pushed him away and ran like a coward. He wants more than anything to ask her for help. Words bubble up in his throat— _I don’t know what to do— I feel wrong— please tell me I’m not some kind of freak._

He says nothing.

She leaves the bottle.

He picks it up and studies the label that he has memorized. As if from a great distance, he hears the jingle of the bell as the front door swings open and a new customer enters the bar. Even when drowning, he can’t deny his own suspicious nature— he glances over to assess the arrival. His throat closes and his eyes shoot wide. His head twists back around towards his aunt, his face a stark mask of panic as he gasps, “Chris!”

She understands what he’s asking for, even if she doesn’t understand why. Without hesitating, she swings up the gate portion of the bar, allowing him to dart inside, letting it fall closed behind him. He drops to the floor, sitting with his back against the bottles stacked just out of sight of the customers. She looks down at him and almost doesn’t recognize him— he looks pale and sick and wild, the way she always pictured him on the battlefield.

She looks up at the tall blond soldier as he approaches the bar, his blue eyes sad and lonely— a combination she is quite familiar with.

“Can I help you?” she drawls, reaching for a clean glass, her hand pausing on the way to squeeze Roy’s shivering shoulder.

“I need...” he pauses, scratches the back of his neck. “Somebody.”

Roy’s gut twists at the helpless tone of Havoc’s voice. He can’t actually see him from his hiding place, but even so, he can _see_ the look on his face, that dog-like expression of confusion and hurt. He can see the way the second lieutenant purses his lips, worrying the cigarette held in his teeth— the way he picks at his collar and scratches his ankle with the heel of his boot.

“We’ve got plenty of somebodys,” Chris says, and she indicates the empty glass, waiting for an order.

“Straight-up. Anything.”

Mustang realizes stupidly that he’s still holding the bourbon bottle. Chris selects a scotch instead, and Roy hears the pronounced gulp of his subordinate finishing the drink before it even has a chance to sit on the bar.

“What kind of somebody are you looking for?” Chris continues, refilling the glass.

A snort of laughter, and then— “Do you have any girls with short black hair?”

Against her will, Chris glances down at her foster son. Roy is covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes lost, his breathing shallow. She looks back at the soldier.

“We’ve got black hair. Not many of the girls wear it short these days.”

“Didn’t think so. How about— about this tall?”

The soldier indicates around the level of his chin— a bit tall for a woman, a bit small for a man— and that’s when she understands.

“We’ll find you a girl, soldier,” she promises, then beckons for Louise, the closest match she has.

They move away, Havoc’s heavy footsteps masked by the soothing rustle of a ruffled silk dress.

His head leaned back onto the shelf, Roy stares at the gilt ceiling and runs his thumb around the mouth of his whiskey bottle. He wonders how much he will have to drink before he goes numb. He wonders if it’s all right for him to want that. There are so many things he isn’t allowed to have— things that he wants, things that he desperately craves— _blue eyes and the taste of smoke._ There are so many things that he’s not allowed to give. He wants to pour himself into a jar and seal the lid so tight that he never feels anything again. No one will ever taste him again, and no one will ever come so close.

In the meantime, he’s got this bottle to fill the empty spaces.

 

 

_______end.


End file.
